


Unseasonal

by nixwilliams



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-07
Updated: 2007-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nixwilliams/pseuds/nixwilliams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s October when he comes back, hands curled like dry leaves in his jacket pockets.  She’s on her last break, huddled around a cigarette in the doorway at the back of the diner, and suddenly there he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unseasonal

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ, July 2007. Ah, remember SPN S2 - my favourite season, with my favourite characters! [wofl_iron](http://wofl-iron.livejournal.com/) wrote a story, [Even Diamonds Start as Coal](http://coldcerealstars.livejournal.com/21340.html), in which Tracey gives Andy a second chance. I wrote a slightly less happy version. Thanks to [johnnypurple](http://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnypurple/pseuds/johnnypurple) for the encouragement.

It’s October when he comes back, hands curled like dry leaves in his jacket pockets. She’s on her last break, huddled around a cigarette in the doorway at the back of the diner, and suddenly there he is.

 _Hello_ , she says.

 _Hi_. He stands there, watching her.

She stopped wondering months ago what she’d do if he showed up. It never got her anywhere, anyway – she always faltered on the bit where he might or might not mind control her out of her clothes and off a dam wall. But now the moment’s here, she takes another drag of her cigarette and stares right back at him. _What do you want?_

 _Your_ , he says, or maybe _You're_. He gestures, hands still in his pockets, and starts again. _You’re smoking_ , he says, like after all that shit they could just stand around making small talk. She doesn’t answer, drops the butt of her cigarette and stamps it out.

It’s getting dark earlier, now. She’ll be walking home as the streetlights flicker on, hood pulled up on her coat. The trees down the road are almost bare, and if she’s far enough away the last few bunches of leaves look like they’re floating midair.

 _You know I never_ , he tells her, and she comes back with a start to his sad half-smile. _I never used. It. On you_.

She feels a gust of cold air against her cheek, like a silent laugh. She should head back inside where the world is warm and familiar, full of coffee and bacon and dishwashing detergent. The orders she took to tables before she came out here will be almost done by now, and folks’ cups will be getting low. _Yes, you did_ , she replies.

Her voice doesn’t sound like her own, she thinks as she turns away, turns the doorhandle. The cold metal on her palm reminds her of waking up to the sound of her neighbours fighting. Their arguments come up through the stairwell, and it’s always about who didn’t do the housework or pay the bills, same lines over and over. _I better go back_ , she says, and she knows it’s her voice, because she knows what it’s like to be made to say things and this isn’t it. _My break’s over_.

 _Wait_. He says it like a question, like he can ask things of people instead of taking them, and it’s enough for her turn back and really look at him. He hasn’t changed much. Still scruffy around the edges, a touch on the worn side of loveable. There are the same crinkles telling jokes around his eyes, and she’s willing to bet his grin has the same air of shy certainty.

A smile tugs at her mouth like a breeze around a corner. _Wait what?_

And here it is. _Do you think?_ He steps closer, and she almost doesn’t notice her fingers clenching. _Maybe. We could be friends?_

He says it like there are all the possibilities in the world wrapped up in her answer, and he’s still the same. He’s offering to drop by when she gets off work. They can kick back in the van, smoke a little, and she’ll walk home with her skin buzzing and fall asleep with a smile on her face. She wants to believe him. She wants to believe in his fragile hope, twigs reaching out over a frosty morning before the garbage truck comes grumbling through. She wants to.

 _Tracey?_

But he hasn’t changed, and maybe that’s the problem. So she shrugs and meets his eyes.

 _No._

The door clicks behind her as she re-ties her apron, and she breathes deep the smell of kitchen and stockroom. She knows that this might be the last whiff of raw onion, the last half-heard conversation, the last time she decides whose order to take first. She rubs her fingers, pats her hair, and chooses to go back to work.


End file.
